by Lyn Forester
“You comping this to Black Corporation?”
“All part of the investigation costs.” Another sandwich gets stuffed in among the masticated remains of its predecessor.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Don’t ask me questions when my mouth is full.” Green paste covers his teeth when he speaks.
“Stop it. You’re disgusting.”
“Nom nom nom.”
“Now you’re just doing it on purpose.” A smile tickles at the corners of my mouth, and he relaxes, pleased with himself. The teacup disappears in his hand as he lifts it to take a sip. His eyes close as he rolls the liquid around in his mouth, savoring the taste, before swallowing. “This shop might be better than Steamed Leaves on Level 10.”
“Do you do anything besides eat?”
“I get laid.” He pauses, contemplative. “A lot.”
I shake my head with resignation. “What do you do at Black Corp?” His personnel file has him graded at multiple levels within the company, but doesn’t say what job he currently performs.
“Right now, I investigate profit loss and dead bodies.” He eyes the last sandwich on the plate, but leaves it alone. “Tell me about Chattle.”
I allow the topic change, the case more important than my curiosity. “He was desperate.”
“Yeah, desperate for a date.” The last sandwich disappears, and he waves over the hovering server to clear the table.
“May I get you anything else?”
“We’ll take an ounce of Silver Leaf 7, fine-cut, to go.” The server freezes in the process of clearing the table. Yeah, I’m ordering expensive tea. No need for him be shocked. I raise a brow at him, and he straightens, tray of dirty dishes balanced in his hands.
“Right away, ma’am.” His heels tap together before he hurries away.
Back to the topic at hand. “I’m not sure Chattle was desperate for a date, as sexy as you think you are.”
“Your eyes are broken. I’m magnificent.” He smirks, cradles the teacup in his fingers, and leans back. A rolling hand motions for me to continue.
“While Lollipop man had your attention, I noticed the new cameras were diverted to observe us. Someone else was interested in what Chattle had to say.”
“So you told me to take his number.” He takes a sip of the tea, eyes drifting in thought. “It wouldn’t have mattered though, someone killed him before he could speak to us.”
“All the cameras on the block scrambled an hour after our visit to The Hut and didn't come back online until after we found the body. I’m hoping Carmichael can give us a firmer time of death, to know how long after we left he was murdered.” I reach into the pocket on my pant leg, the one without the Bell-E Up bars, and pull out a clear wrapper. “I found this on the body.”
I slide the plastic envelope across the table. Chattle’s blood still smears the square packet of Ash inside, brown and flaky after drying overnight. I’d transferred it to an evidence sleeve after getting back up last night. Until then, I’d forgotten about it. I’m lucky I didn’t put it in the washer.
Drake lifts the envelope and flips it over to see the back.
“This what I think it is?” He squints, trying to make out the symbol on the packet. But the blood smears make it hard to see. It needs to be cleaned.
“I think so. Carmichael will say for sure.” I should have ordered two ounces of tea. The grumpy medic won’t like all my requests. “It was on him when I found his body, but he didn’t smell like a user. I only found one packet, but there might have been more that I missed. He could have been a dealer.”
“Maybe.” He sounds doubtful, confirming my own instincts. Chattle didn’t give off the drug dealer vibe, even if he worked in an aphremore den.
He passes back the envelope as the waiter returns to set the bill on the table. In front of me, he places a small, golden bag with an abstract design stamped on the front that reminds me of smoke.
The tea comes in a round, flat tin, with the name and date written across the top in elegant script. I wedge a nail under the lid to pop it open. Small, black leaves curl around themselves, dense and with a slight shimmer. Silver feathers rise from the back of each leaf.
I lift the tin to my nose and inhale the scent of bitter black leaves with a hint of pine. I glance at Drake. He has the check in hand, but waits for my approval before he pays. I slide the tin across the table, and he sets the bill down to inspect the tea himself.
The waiter fidgets, damp spots appearing on his brow. The hands folded at his waist clench, knuckles white.
I know nothing about tea, but the waiter’s reaction tells me enough.
Drake sets the tin down after a brief shake and sniff. “I think you made a mistake. This is Fox Glove Black.”
“I’m so sorry. The bins must be mislabeled.” The waiter snatches the tin off the table and scurries back to the counter.
I flip open the menu, curious, and run a finger down the list of teas until I come to Fox Glove Black. “Asshole tried to sell us bottom-shelf leaf at top-shelf price. Carmichael would have banned me from the freezer.”
“He must have a system set up to remind him how many credits go to the store and how many he pockets.” I follow Drake’s gaze back to the counter where the man lifts down a copper container from the top shelf and pulls on gloves. A silver scoop transfers leaves into a new tin positioned on the scale.
Once he has the right amount, the container goes back to the shelf, and the new tin gets labeled and bagged. As he comes back around, he dumps a bowl of sugar cubes into the trash.
“There it is.” Drake tips the last of his tea into his mouth, satisfied.
“The sugar cubes?”
“Yeah, it’s crude but functional. Each cube represents how many credits he’ll pocket before completing the transaction.”
“Huh.”
“I’m sorry for the wait.” The new bag settles in front of me. “I added a quarter ounce for the inconvenience.”
“Thank you.” I resist checking the tin again, content he wouldn’t scam us twice. The waiter bows before he hurries away.
Drake picks the bill back up and signs it, then scans his datband across the back. I take a peek at the total and give myself a gold star for never eating at places like this. Way too expensive.
The bowl of sugar cubes on the table catch my eye, and I pluck four out, stack them in a tower next to the bill. Four should do it.
“Don’t be cheap. He deserves a bigger tip than that.” Drake adds one more cube to the top.
~
"You're not on the schedule, Ms. Thorpe," Carmichael shouts into the intercom. His hair stands extra tall from his head today, waving at me as his head wiggles back and forth on his neck.
"Check again, Medic. I made the appointment last night." The special bag of tea weighs heavy in my jacket pocket. But that bribe will wait for later, when I ask him for favors.
"Why's he with you again? Didn't I say no more juniors in the freezer?" His brown eyes narrow at Drake, annoyance magnified to cartoonish proportion by the goggles strapped to his face. Does he even know how hard it is to take him seriously when he wears those things?
"He's staying on for the case." Not a lie. "But he still might fall in love with the blue guard. Investigators, Inc. wants me to give him special attention to woo him to our side." Total lie, but we've started down this path, so I don't mind adding backstory.
"You don't say?" Carmichael has a soft spot for blue guards since they employ him. "Well, as long as he behaves today."
The doors swish open with a cool plume of antiseptic air.
"Thank you for seeing us."
"I don't know how you got on the schedule.” The booties on his feet make a shushing noise as he shuffles over to his desk. “You weren't on it last night when I closed down."
“The body came in after hours.”
“The stabbing on Level 4?” Thick eyebrows climb up his forehead in surprise. “Why’d they ship him up here?
Don’t I have enough work on my table?”
“Blue Guard Rinehart signed the paperwork for transportation.” I move over to the exam table, Drake on my heels. “It might be related to the current case.”
“That one you’re running for Black Corp?” Carmichael wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Don’t know why you mix with them.”
“Even criminals deserve help.” I avoid looking at the Black Corp employee in the room.
“Don’t let her corrupt you, kid.” A knobby finger points in Drake’s direction as Carmichael shuffles over to the exam table, palm-port in hand. “Blue guards don’t have this softheartedness toward Black Corp. You’ll be better off signing on with Blue Hall if detective work is what you want. I.I.’s just a bunch of mercenaries.”
“Investigators, Inc. fills the gaps where Blue Hall can’t, or won’t, interfere.” My muscles tense with irritation, and I relax them.
“Spies, the lot of you, peeping in people’s windows, getting drug dealers off the hook.” His thin lips pinch into a frown, and his narrow chin juts forward.
“Well, today we’re working on arresting a drug dealer, so you should be happy.”
“I’m never happy when you visit, Ms. Thorpe.” The white jumpsuit stretches across his narrow shoulders as he folds his arms.
“I’m never happy to visit, Carmichael.” I fold my own arms in a standoff, the metal table our dividing line.
“Medic Carmichael,” Drake interjects as he steps up beside me. “Perhaps we can view the body?”
“Yes.” His teeth click in irritation as he punches a code into the table’s control panel. The table whirs, gears clanking, as the internal mechanisms rotate through the inventory. It reminds me of the kid’s game, with the box full of toys and the metal claw.
The sound changes to a whizzing noise, and the surface of the table splits open. William Chattle’s body rises from the depths, pale and lifeless. The cake makeup and glitter have been washed away, the sparkle pants and ruffled shirt removed. A towel drapes his waist. The white cloth barely contrasts against his naked torso and limbs. Even the wound in his side looks pale, the bloodless meat of his insides exposed.
“You’ve arrived before I could do a full workup, but he’s next on my list, so I can do it now.” From a drawer, Carmichael removes a pair of rubber gloves and slides them on. The bright blue stands out, harsh against the white of his jumpsuit. “Junior, you ever seen an exam before? I know Ms. Thorpe won’t puke, but if you get queasy, you can wait outside.”
“I’ll leave if I feel sick.” Drake glances at the instruments above the table.
He looks more curious than apprehensive, too obvious in his acceptance of the dead body. Good thing Carmichael has fallen into professional mode, attention on the body. Otherwise, he might be suspicious. Most juniors would have bolted.
Leaving the room sounds nice. I lock my hands behind my back and prepare to watch.
~
Carmichael wipes his gloves off on a towel as the metal instruments rise into the ceiling to be sanitized.
Drake makes it through the autopsy, only stepping away once. I don’t know if I should be glad he needed to take a breather or not. The whole experience leaves me numb.
“So what can you tell me?” I ask as Carmichael drapes a fresh towel over the body.
“Cause of death is a stab wound to the abdomen. The knife hit the abdominal aorta. Once the knife came out, the victim died in minutes. Time of death was between 2200 and 2300.” The autopsy process calmed Carmichael down, the antagonism of earlier washed away with Chattle’s remains.
“Did you find any evidence that Chattle used aphremore?”
“The urine and blood analysis came back clean, so if he did, it wasn’t in the last week.”
“Did you find any evidence of aphremore anywhere on the body?”
Carmichael removes his gloves, tosses them in the incineration bin, and shuffles to his palm-port. The device rests in a docking station at the head of the table, set to record the autopsy. He lifts it down and squints as he swipes through documents.
A knobby finger stabs at the screen as he finds the correct file. “The victim's back showed evidence of Ash. The scene techs also found empty packets in the dumpster that had Ash residue. No evidence on the front of the body, so Blue Guard Rinehart has concluded the residue came from Ms. Margie Saline. It seems, based on a brief interview, that Mr. Chattle only worked the front room at The Hut and didn’t have clearance to go to the back.”
“Can the Ash be analyzed for chemical break down? Could it tell us where it’s being synthesized?” Drake asks.
“The evidence from the body is contaminated with Mr. Chattle’s blood, and the packets are contaminated with Ms. Saline’s saliva. It would seem she licked the bags clean. We have our machines working to separate the compounds so the contaminants can be removed, but it will take a couple days.”
“What if you had a clean sample?” I finger the envelope in my pocket and brace for the negative backlash sure to come.
“There weren't any clean samples found at the scene.” Thick eyebrows swoop down to crouch over his goggles as his eyes narrow in my direction. “Unless a certain investigator tampered with evidence at the crime scene?”
I withdraw the envelope from my pocket and extend it to him across the table. He snatches it from my fingers.
“This is why your company needs to be disbanded!” He shakes the stiff plastic in my direction, and the square packet bounces around inside. Rust-colored flecks bounce with it. “No respect for proper procedure. Mucking up crime scenes. If you think I will process this for you, you can just go fill out the required forms and see how long it takes.”
Entire body vibrating with indignation, his narrow shoulders hunch up by his ears in full-on hibernation mode. Next, he’ll demand we leave. I pull out my secret weapon, and he freezes mid-rant, gaze locked on the golden bag that dangles from my fingers.
His eyes shift from the bribe to the envelope, pointed chin moving up and down as he clicks his teeth. The first time I’d found myself in this situation, I made the mistake of trying to bribe him with credits. He banned me from the freezer. It took some digging to discover his love of fine teas and historical Earth toys. I have a ball-in-cup locked away at home, for the day I seriously fuck up.
I may be awesome, but I know I’m just not going to convince Carmichael of that fact.
Shoulders descend to their natural location, and the medic shuffles his way around the table, gaze fixed on the bag. He stops in front of me, head tilted back. Still squinting in annoyance, he accepts the bag.
“Don’t think you can always use bribes to get your way.” He lifts his feet to take hurried steps to his desk, and I worry he’ll fall in his haste. Those booties aren’t logical for the polished floor.
From the bottom drawer of his desk, he withdraws an electric kettle and a teacup. He tips the golden bag, withdraws the tin of tea and coos in pleasure. “Oh, Silver Leaf 7. I haven’t had you in over six months.”
Yeah, the last time I’d had to bribe him. I guess I should be thankful he spends all his money on toy auctions. Otherwise, he could walk his ass across the street and buy his own damn tea.
“When will the results be ready from the Ash analysis?”
Carmichael pulls a jar of water from another drawer and pours it into the kettle. He plugs in the machine, and a red light blinks on as it heats the liquid. The tin opens with an audible pop, and he carefully taps leaves into the waiting cup.
“Carmichael.” I bang the metal table with a fist, the noise loud and echoing.
The medic jumps. “What?”
“The analysis?”
“I’ll start it in a minute.” A distracted hand waves in my direction.
“What about looking at the other bodies?” Drake’s breath tickles my ear, and I swat at him.
“Not looking good. We’ll try again later.” I should have started with the other bodies, knowing I’d piss him off today. Anothe
r loud bang gets Carmichael’s attention.
He whips around to glare. “Stop making all that noise!”
“When will the analysis be ready?” I’m trying to channel my Zen here, but the man makes it difficult.
“Should be done tonight, morning at the latest. I’ll call you.” Steam pours from the kettle, and with a beep, the light switches to green. He turns back to the tea. “Now get out. I’m busy.”
~
“I need to stop by the case kiosks,” I tell Drake as we exit the elevator.
When we get there, I’m surprised to find the area empty. Usually, at least one other investigator is there. Then I realize it’s Saturday. No one picks up new cases on the weekend.
Punching my code into the machine, I locate the file for the cheating boyfriend. Drake hovers over my shoulder, curious, as I slide my data stick into the reader and upload my file. When the screen asks if I have any evidence I would like to report, I select yes. A hatch opens, spitting out an envelope with the case file, date, and time stamped on it. I toss in the data disc and seal it up before I return the envelope to the hatch and push the button to finalize the case.
Another prompt pops up on the screen, and I slide my datband under the scanner and wait for the funds to transfer into my account. The credits won't become available for two days. The time delay allows clients to file a grievance if there’s an issue with the findings.
“That’s it?” Drake asks as I sign off.
“Yep.” I pull my transfer stick from the machine and slip it back into place on my datband.
“What did you make for the case?”
“That’s a rude question.”
“How long did it take you to lure the guy?”
I face him, eyebrow raised. “Why are you asking?”
“Just curious. I’ve never seen an Investigator work before.” Drake glances at the leaderboard overhead, and I follow his gaze. Third line down, a public case asks for help to locate a missing ring. Above it is another case, this one with a client wanting to reconnect with a high school sweetheart. Ridiculous, how some people spend credits. But it keeps me employed.
